


Touch

by TooManyChoices



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Coming In Pants, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Massage, Touching, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 21:33:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6301216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyChoices/pseuds/TooManyChoices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What starts as a simple gift of touch to relax John Watson escalated to more than either expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

John’s not sure how they got here. No, that’s not entirely correct, he thinks. He knows how they got here, and he even knows when it started. He’s just not entirely sure how they got… _here_.

**

It started one night after a particularly long and wearing day at the clinic. The usual stream of runny noses, aches and pains, and requests for prescription refreshes had been punctuated by an overly large man who’d stumbled as he left the consulting room, causing John to reach out a steadying arm. The result had been the poor man putting his not inconsiderable weight on John’s bad shoulder, a nasty bruise for the patient from the impact with the doorframe, John’s wrenched shoulder socket, and a nagging twinge in John’s lower back.

By the time John mounted the 17 steps and dragged himself through the door, over to the sofa and collapsed upon it face down, he’d been tired, sore and hating the world.

“Bad day?” came the question from the kitchen, and John hadn’t even had the energy to grunt in reply.

He’d expected Sherlock to lapse back into silence and return to his experiment, which by the smell was something to do with burning feathers, but instead there was a nudge to the top of his head as Sherlock somehow managed to squeeze between it and the arm of the chair.

“Gerroff,” he slurred into the sofa cushions as Sherlock settled in beside him and he heard the hollow sound of twin cups being set on the coffee table.

“Shhh,” the detective’s tone was unexpectedly soft, “you‘ve plenty of room. Relax, I’ve just come over here to read and bring your tea.”

The gentle tapping of keys and mousepad signalled Sherlock’s return to his research and John found his remaining will didn’t extend to further argument. Instead he rolled onto his side, briefly grunting at the sharp pain in his lumbar region, and settled again with his back facing the room, top of his head pressed against Sherlock’s warm thigh.

He may have drifted off, or perhaps he just floated in the quiet space between waking and sleeping, but he became aware of the gentle press and slide of Sherlock’s fingers against his spine. Feather-light and transient, never stilling for long, brushing at John’s shirt in long strokes, barely hard enough to bridge the gap between fabric and skin.

On any other day, John may have challenged the action, asked what the hell Sherlock was doing, perhaps made a weak and increasingly implausible objection. As it was, the careful, undemanding touch was like balm on frayed nerves and he settled for a deep, thankful sigh and relaxed.

Sherlock’s typing slowed, and in the vaguely conscious part of John’s mind he realised that his flatmate was now methodically typing one handed, the other continuing the rhythmic swipes and erratic patterns across shoulders and back. He imagined the furrowed brow and tight line of Sherlock’s mouth at the inefficiency of his progress, and yet the soothing patterns continued, dragging him deeper and deeper into a blissful state of relaxation.

He’d just steeled himself to sacrifice the indulgence and say something when the typing ceased altogether and the metallic click signalled Sherlock had put the laptop aside. He expected that to signal an end to the odd intimacy too, but the fingers of Sherlock’s hand continued to weave their esoteric script without pause, and John found himself overcome with inexpressible gratitude as he finally succumb to the simple, consuming darkness of sleep.

**

John never mentioned it. Not the following morning, not the following day when, inexplicably, Sherlock repeated the activity. Silently taking a seat beside him on the couch and playing music on John’s back with his long violinist’s fingers, settling him and playing his skin to blissful repose.

He still didn’t mention it as it became a night-time routine, as Sherlock willingly sacrificed hours to simply sit and run idle hands over John’s back in seemingly meaningless movements.

Sometimes Sherlock would read, holding a book open in his other hand and awkwardly turning pages, other nights he’d turn on the telly and drop the volume low. But always it ended the same way; Sherlock would finally put aside what he was doing and apply his focus to John, smoothing, stroking and setting John’s skin alight with tingles until John drifted to sleep.

**

“This would be easier without the shirt,” the comment came one night without preamble and without warning and John tensed under the roving fingertips as Sherlock’s words whispered into the room.

“What?” John pulled himself from his hedonistic revelry to ensure he’d heard correctly.

“Your shirt; this would be easier without it,” Sherlock repeated, “less friction.”

"Yeah but," John managed before he was interrupted by a derisive snort.

“You obviously enjoy this. I’m simply suggesting that you remove your shirt to allow me better access. From my own selfish point of view, being able to see the edges of your muscle groups would make this more efficient.”

John rolled onto his back deciding that if, at last, they were going to talk about this, he’d like to at least be able to make eye contact, “Sherlock, there’s nothing _efficient_ about this for you at all,” John took a deep breath, “In fact from what I can see, there’s _nothing_ in it for you, so why are you doing it?”

John could see Sherlock roll his eyes, even from his upside down vantage point and braced himself for the lengthy explanation of the experiment he was no doubt being subjected to. However, he was unprepared for the unvarnished honesty in Sherlock’s whispered reply, “I’ve already said… You enjoy it.”

And with that Sherlock fell quiet, adding a slow blink in John’s direction as if waiting for enlightenment to strike his flatmate.

Laying flat on his back, head pressed gently against the curve of Sherlock’s thigh, John turned the three words over, then over again, finding no additional revelation on each subsequent pass. In the end he simply lay there blinking silently in time with Sherlock.

Eventually, Sherlock simply huffed and the corner of his mouth quirked up. Closing the book he’d been reading (one handed) he put it aside and said, very slowly, “John… Take your shirt off.”

**

And so it continued, albeit now without the shirt, night upon night. If such a thing as a routine existed in Baker Street, the nightly giving and receiving of gentle touches became one. John didn’t understand it, didn’t question it further, and if he were absolutely honest with himself, became more reliant on it to end his day and soothe him to sleep as the weeks passed.

John realised the depth of his addiction when, after three weeks, Sherlock was called away suddenly to York, leaving John behind to deal with the continuing flu season at the clinic. It took three nights before John began to understand the cause of the relentless restlessness and the fact that he was still staring at the ceiling of his room, tense and jittery, at four in the morning.

Upon his return, Sherlock took in John’s haggard face, twitching hands, and slightly desperate eyes with a glance and wordlessly gathered two cups of tea and settled himself at the end of the sofa before beckoning John to join him. Several buttons were lost from John’s shirt in his haste to join him and only the echoing sigh from the detective lessened John’s own embarrassment at the rough, low noise that escaped him as the warm fingers settled on his skin. Neither mentioned the fact that it was two in the afternoon, or the fact that John was already half-hard within his jeans even before he’d even arranged himself on the couch.

**

There had been a vague discussion regarding the temperature of the room, and the narrowness of the sofa that prompted the move to Sherlock’s bed. In hindsight, John doubts either of them needed much convincing, and as a result the routine continued with John sprawled face-down on Sherlock’s high count sheet with Sherlock settled comfortably next to him against the headboard. Neither mentioned the breathy sighs Sherlock’s touch sometimes elicited from John and the fact that on some nights, John ended their session by quietly excusing himself to the bathroom for some ‘private time’ in the shower with the radio turned up to cover any incriminating noises.

John became accustomed to the nightly feeling of fuzzy, warm arousal and being lulled to sleep as Sherlock’s hands continued their wave-like drift across his skin before awaking in Sherlock’s bed some hours later. Sometimes Sherlock would be asleep beside him, other time the detective would be missing, off filling his time with bodies and mysteries and experiments.

More often than not, John would give an internal shrug of surrender, shed his jeans and crawl back under the warm covers for a few more hours.

Still, it came as a surprise, one chilly Winter morning to wake to the familiar feel of fingertips drawing circles on his bare shoulder, tracing the now familiar outline of the ridged scar tissue there. It was clear that at some point, Sherlock had returned to bed to escape the chill of the flat, breaking their unspoken routine of this only being a bedtime habit.

“Sher…”

“Shhh…”

“OK,” John lapsed to silence.

Sherlock had curled in behind him, half an arms-length away yet John was sure he could feel the heat radiating from his friend. The ghost of Sherlock’s breath tickled against his neck as he breathed in and out in time with the pass of his hands.

There was something different in the air, and John felt that Sherlock must surely hear his heart hammering. The low-level thrum of arousal ticked up a notch to a less easily ignored drumbeat, carrying blood southward and making John hyper-aware of each brush of fingers.

Sherlock usually restricted his strokes to shoulders and spine, but this morning he was venturing into uncharted territory. With a fingertip, he traced where John’s arm met his chest, following the furrow and John shivered as sensitive skin reacted to the uncommon touch.

He tried again, voice little more than a whisper, “Sherlock….”

“Shhh…” The detective repeated, his voice low and intimate, “Just enjoy it.”

John’s breath hitched as Sherlock again zeroed in on the pale, soft skin of his underarm. He couldn’t suppress the shiver as he felt Sherlock shift behind him, shuffling closer giving access to a better range of movement.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice seemed impossibly close, his warm breath against his ear, “tell me if you want me to stop, but for the record, I’d rather not. You’re fascinating like this; warm, pliant, almost glowing with trust and contentment.” Sherlock eased a long arm over to run the pad of his thumb across John’s nipple before moving on, “You’ve never had this with anybody, have you? Nobody but me.”

“Never,” John managed to mumble as the thumb brushed featherlight across his nipple again as he felt it pebble in response, “Nobody has ever touched me like this.”

“Their loss,” Sherlock murmured, hands continuing to move, “You’re aroused…” He added, more a statement Of fact than a question.

“Yeah, sorry,” even facing away from Sherlock’s knowing gaze, he blushed.

“Don’t be,” Sherlock’s breath was back against his ear again, “I take it as a compliment.”

John shuddered hard and for the briefest of moments, Sherlock’s lips met the shell of his ear, stilled, and pursed with the gentlest hint of a kiss.

“God… Sherlock,” the hushed entreaty slipped from his mouth as Sherlock’s hands continued to roam, circling slightly lower on his chest and then returning to drag across his nipples again before starting another circuit.

“John?” He whispered, low and intimate.

“Mmmmm,” John hoped the sound would be taken as affirmation, coming as it did as part whine, part moan.

“I’m not unaffected myself,” and with a gentle roll of his hips, the barest suggestion of Sherlock’s erection brushed against the back of John’s underwear, “which, I’ll admit, is something of a unique experience for me.”

John’s sudden intake of breath brought his chest into contact with Sherlock’s fingers again with another tingling brush against the raised nub.

“Is that alright,” the voice behind him asked softly, “That I’m so close to you… and aroused? I’m not overly familiar with the protocol here.”

John nodded shakily, not trusting his voice as Sherlock’s hand circled lower again and his mind screamed that with just another inch, the back of Sherlock’s hand would brush against his erection. He feared that if he opened his mouth, words like Please, and yes, and touch me, would tumble out. He wanted that touch badly, but perhaps Sherlock had doubts.

In response to his nod, the warm breath of Sherlock’s relieved exhale flowed over his neck and Sherlock wriggled closer again, still not quite flush, but close enough that every time he shifted his arm to trace another path down John’s body, his chest would lean to press against his back and the tantalising nudge of Sherlock’s cock returned to the back of John’s underwear only to disappear again as Sherlock rocked back.

Sherlock managed only two more circuits with shaky fingers before he spread his fingers wide against the middle of John’s chest and pulled him back ward with a groan, burying his face in the short hairs at a the nape of John’s neck and holding him tight.

"Tell me this won’t ruin us, John? Our friendship, I can’t risk that... even for the chance of it being more,” he murmured brokenly, “Tell me to stop if there’s a risk.” Even muffled against his skin, there was an unfamiliar tone of fear and desperation in the voice.

As much as John wanted to throw caution to the wind and just go for it, Sherlock deserved the truth. There were so few situations in which Sherlock admitted a lack of knowledge, of understanding and looked to John for guidance, and this was potentially the most important of all. So John pulled what little willpower remained together and placed his hand over Sherlock’s where it lay pressed hard to his sternum, stilling the movement.

“I can’t promise that, Sherlock,” John whispered, aware how his voice caught roughly, “I wish I could, because if you stop touching me right now, I may _actually_ pin you to the bed, but you need facts right now, and the fact is… I can’t promise happily-ever-after. Relationships aren’t like that.”

Sherlock had stilled at the words, a fine shiver of nervous energy making his hand tremble within John’s, “Is that what this is then, a relationship?” He asked carefully.

“It could be, if you wanted it. But I didn’t think you did this,” John squeezed Sherlock’s hand slightly, “sentiment and all that?”

“Seems like the matter has been taken out of my hands, so-to-speak,” came the reply, whispered in his ear, “But I thought you wouldn’t find this – me - arousing.”

“Seems like we’ve both been surprised, then.” John gently encouraged Sherlock to resume the movement of his hand, reinstating the rhythmic circles before sighing and pressing back into Sherlock’s embrace, “because there’s no doubt about it, I do.”

“I don’t know what to do, John. I have no idea how this is supposed to go,” the voice, little more than a whisper, caused something to curl tight and protective in John’s heart.

“You’re doing fine, more than fine,” John murmured, “If this is you not knowing what to do, then God help me when you work it out.”

The deep baritone chuckle was more at ease, and John gave the hand under his a fond squeeze as it continued it’s path up and around and down again.

They lapsed into silence again, and John could feel the cadence of a heartbeat where his back pressed against Sherlock’s chest and the solid press of Sherlock’s erection was a welcome distraction where it pressed against his arse.

John had almost resigned himself to the need for another cold shower when Sherlock whispered, almost too low to hear, “I want to try, John. If you want me as much as I want you, I’d like to try.”

“Thank God,” John replied, feeling as though a weight had lifted, “because I’m not sure I could give you up anymore.” John released his hand to lean back and rest a palm on Sherlock’s hip, reassuring and firm, “We’ll take things at your speed, Sherlock. Whatever pace you want, slow as you want.”

Sherlock rolled his hip under John’s hand and ground his erection against his arse, “And if I don’t want slow?”

John laughed, remembering the heady days of his youth, experimenting and wanting it all, _as much as possible, and right now_ , “That’s fine with me too, here...” and took hold of Sherlock’s hand, dragging it down the line of his stomach to brush along his erection where it lay stiff and firm amongst short curls under soft cotton briefs, “why don’t you get to know each other, it’s wanted to meet you for some time.”

As long fingers gently encircled his cock and gave an experimental tug through the fabric, Sherlock gave a tight hiss behind him and ground out his name, “John, Never thought…”

“Ngghtt, less thinking, more - that, yeah - that’s - good,” John rocked his hips, trapped between the delightful feeling of Sherlock’s hand through thin cotton and the firm column of another man’s desire pressed against the crease of his pants at the back.

“Can I…?” Sherlock hesitantly hooked a thumb under the waistband and paused, uncertain.

“Yeah, fuck, yeah,” and in support of what he thought was a frankly brilliant idea, he helped Sherlock tug at them until he was able to shimmy them down passed his knees to disappear somewhere at the foot of the bed.

He rolled to settle back against Sherlock’s still pyjama-clad crotch with a breathy sigh as the touch of Sherlock’s fingers returned, now more intimate than ever, flesh-on-flesh. John could feel the slightly rough callouses from where his fingertips held down violin strings as they pressed against his over sensitive skin.

"God, Sherlock, your hands," John rasped out, unable to resist the urge to push himself through the circled grip.

“Alright?” Came the question, although the tone indicated he knew the answer already.

“More than – alright – gonna be – more than – enough,” John was breathing hard, trying desperately to think of something other than the feel of those amazing hands on his skin as Sherlock tightened his grip a little, “God, don’t stop.”

Sherlock panted behind him, face pressed to John’s neck and placing sloppy wet kisses whenever it came into reach, and whenever John’s hips flexed backward, he’d grind forward, tilting his own hips to slide his cock along the groove of John’s arse, and John could feel the sticky wetness of pre come dampening the fabric separating them.

“Won’t – stop – can’t, Oh John…oh… Oh!” Sherlock gave three short, hard erratic thrusts and briefly stilled, pressed hard against John’s arse and the feeling of wetness increased suddenly as Sherlock shuddered and moaned low in his throat.

“Christ, Sherlock!” John wrapped his own hand around Sherlock’s where they were joined and he pulled swiftly at himself, shouting Sherlock’s name as he covered their hands and the sheets with his own release.

They lay panting, spooned together, and heedless of the mess covering John both front and back, content to simply catch their breath and rest in the sated bubble of calm that settled around them.

Finally, Sherlock shifted a little, lifting his sticky hand away from John’s now flaccid cock and hesitated, holding it carefully in midair, seemingly unsure whether it was alright to wipe it on the sheets or if that would seem impolite. John rolled onto his back and, noticIng the confused expression on his face, chuckled easily.

“It’s fine, here…” John took hold of the edge of the sheet with his own sticky hand and passed it to Sherlock, “we’ll need to change the sheets anyway.”

“This is somehow – messier – than I expected,” Sherlock wiped up as best he could and John laughed again as the sheet threatened to stick to his hand and Sherlock frowned at it.

“It’s supposed to be, that’s half the fun,” John grinned at him, “we could use condoms if it bothers you,” he added quickly.

“No, it’s…” Sherlock eased smoothly out of the bed and peeled his soiled pyjamas off, tossing them carelessly toward the bathroom door, “fine.”

He looked up to find John staring at him open-mouthed and glanced down at himself, naked in the dim light of the bedroom, he frowned in sudden self-consciousness, “Should I not have done that, exposed myself to you so suddenly?”

John realised his shock had been misinterpreted and rushed to reassure as he climbed out of the bed to join him, “No! Sherlock, no, it’s alright, it’s perfect. I just…” John stepped up close, leaning in to look up into Sherlock’s eyes, “you’re beautiful. I didn’t get a chance to see you earlier, and I – “ John searched for the words, “you’re _beautiful_.”

Sherlock blushed suddenly, and swayed toward John, his eyes dropping to John’s lips. Taking the hint, John pressed up on the balls of his feet to bring their lips together softly first and then with more intent, circling Sherlock’s narrow waist with his arms as they leaned together.

John pulled back and whispered against Sherlock’s lips once more, “ _Beautiful_ ” and his heart warmed as he felt Sherlock’s lips lift and tighten as his lover smiled against his mouth.

Without a word, Sherlock took John’s hand in his and began to tug him backward.

“Where are we going?” John asked softly.

“Shower… and then I have an extensive list of other things I want to try,” Sherlock murmured as he reached to turn the doorknob.

“Can’t wait,” John replied with a smile as he followed him through the door.


End file.
